


Home For the Holidays

by clicktrack_heart



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Fluffy Ending, Hannibal is still a cannibal, Happy Murder Family, M/M, Someone Helps Will Graham, Will Graham Has a Nice Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 23:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5605546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clicktrack_heart/pseuds/clicktrack_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will takes Hannibal and Abigail to West Virginia to celebrate Christmas. Stags, a snake, memories shared and gift giving, oh my! For KareliaSweet for the Hannigram Holiday Exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home For the Holidays

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KareliaSweet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KareliaSweet/gifts).



> Hi KareliaSweet, sorry for your gift delay! Tried to make this as fluffy as possible with lots of happy Christmas moments and Will taking the lead with Hannibal, just for you. ;)

“I’ve been thinking.”

Hannibal’s brow arches. “You are aware you can share these thoughts with me. That’s why you are here.”

Will grins wryly, leaning back in his chair. “I’m well aware of that, Dr. Lecter.”

He pauses, trying to find the right words. What’s on his mind isn’t the normal kind of thing they discuss. 

“It’s about Abigail. She isn’t going anywhere on Friday and it’s Christmas weekend. I was just thinking, as her guardian, I should do something. I actually want to do something. I don’t want Christmas to become another day for Freddie Lounds to poison her mind against me.”

“Well, it is a day that ends in y,” Hannibal says, joking gently. “But I can understand your inclination. It is well within the realm of possibilities to help Abigail have a better holiday. I dislike the idea of her surrounded by those who cannot appreciate her.”

Will nods, biting his lip.

Hannibal steeples his fingers. “It looks as though you have something specific in mind.”

Will blinks. “Perceptive,” he says, then chuckles in acknowledgement. “Or I guess, maybe I’m just that obvious.” He reaches for his phone. 

“I do have something in mind, but I think it’s better to show you.”

Swiping his thumb, he pulls up his bookmarked webpages for Hannibal to see. Specifically, the cabin in West Virginia that Will already reserved last week.

“There’s a stream nearby for fishing, lots of trails for walking...”

Hannibal is silent, scrolling through the photos. Will licks his lips nervously and decides to go for it.

“There’s also a really nice kitchen... State of the art. Or so I’m told. I guess I don’t really know about these things,” he shrugs innocently.

With a faintly amused expression, Hannibal lowers Will’s phone. His mouth curves with the hint of a smile. “When do we leave?”

“Friday.” Will grins.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Slowly, the mountainous terrain Hannibal had driven steadily and cautiously for the past two hours has softened to gentle peaks and slopes.

Will has been checking the weather online and knows it hasn’t snowed in the Appalachians for several days, yet remnants from the last snowstorm still cling to the mountainside--and it’s beautiful. On many of the roads Hannibal has navigated, fresh piles of snow have been heaped on both sides like rippling white blankets. The thick forest of firs around Hannibal’s Bentley still bear a delicate crystal canopy of ice. The ice halos the last of the fading twilight for the rest of their drive.

In reverence, Will observes these transitions. Once this weekend is over, he will return to his life and its daily horrors. But when he needs to, he will return to this peaceful second in time, summoning it with his mind alone. 

He will remember Hannibal and Abigail beside him.

As the car rounds the bend, the log cabin that Will had rented comes into view. 

The owner had called it a “luxury” log cabin in the online description and up close and in person, Will can see it was no exaggeration. The three bedroom, two bathroom rental looms large, ridges of the Appalachian trail nestled on either side of it. The dozen or so lights that illuminate the house glitter like beckoning diamonds, welcoming them. 

“Wow,” Abigail breathes from the backseat. In surprise, Will looks back at her. Most of the drive she had been quiet, playing on her phone and making Will wonder if the trip had been the best idea.

Now, with blue eyes sparkling, she smiles at him. “This is sooo much better than a lame-o Port Haven Christmas.”

“Hmmm, well, I guess that’s not that hard to do,” Will quips, grinning. 

Abigail rolls her eyes. “Just take the thank you, Graham. ‘Cause this is amazing. Seriously.”

Will snorts, then glances at Hannibal from the corner of his eye. The older man is silent but somehow Will can _feel_ the quiet pleasure radiating from him. 

“It looks like it could be in a magazine,” Abigail says, still looking at the cabin. She strains forward against her seatbelt, clutching at the back of Will’s seat to do so.

“What would you like to do once we unpack, Abigail?” Hannibal asks as he parks his car.

“Hmm,” Abigail purses her lips thoughtfully. “Maybe we could be a little boring and just cook dinner together?”

“Of course,” Hannibal says, winking at Abigail. “An extra set of hands, or two in this case, will always be appreciated in the kitchen.”

One thing Will knows is there definitely won’t be a shortage of food. Hannibal has managed to pack two large coolers in the trunk of his car, in addition to their bags.

“After we eat, I can make us homemade hot chocolates,” Abigail says wistfully as they pile out of the car, each of them stretching their legs before heading to the trunk. 

“How do you prepare yours?” Hannibal asks. 

“My mom had a really good recipe. She always added cinnamon to it. It would be nice to make it like she did again, now that I can have access to a stove. At Port Haven, they only have the prefab mixes. We have to microwave the water.” Abigail wrinkles her nose and Will smirks at Hannibal’s look of disgust. They share a laugh at something normal for a change, the horror of microwaved Swiss Miss.

Will is well aware of Port Haven’s kitchen policies. At risk minors like Abigail aren’t allowed near knives or even inside kitchens, for that matter. Abigail has been vocal about the rule with both him and Hannibal. Though Will worries about Abigail, he has never agreed with the mandated suicide watch. Nicholas Boyle has proven Abigail’s will to live. The stray thought makes Will frown and he shoves it aside. Will is glad to give Abigail a little freedom, at least for Christmas. 

With duffel bags, backpacks and coolers toted behind them, they trek the last few feet to their home for the weekend. 

The remainder of the evening is spent around the dining table, with a fine meal of roasted lamb asparagus and parmesan orzo, orchestrated to perfection by Hannibal. They end their dinner with three cups of hot chocolate from Abigail-- topped with marshmallows and the lightest sprinkle of cinnamon.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will wakes before the sunrise. He stretches before he sits up, feeling loose and well rested. Something about sharing cups of cocoa with Abigail and Hannibal last night had him sleeping deeply, beyond the reach of his usual nightmares.

If that isn’t a Christmas miracle, he doesn’t know what is. After dressing quickly and warmly with several layers, Will brushes his teeth in the bathroom between his room and Hannibal’s and then heads downstairs. He makes a beeline for the kitchen sink, filling a cup with water and stretching again as he takes a satisfying gulp.

A polite cough lets him know he is not alone.

Will turns immediately. Hannibal sits on the sofa with his iPad, on the other side of the open-concept living room and kitchen. He is inclined luxuriously, colorful plaid patterned socks stretched out before him and a small suede pillow nestled behind his back. 

“Morning,” Will says sheepishly, caught mid stretch. “You’re up early.”

Hannibal’s lips curve indulgently. “I prefer to wake up early to read. Too frequently my culinary activities or evening engagements interfere with a good book.”

Will nods. He sets his cup down on the counter. “Well, today we’re off the grid at least.” He looks around at the cabin’s luxurious surroundings. There’s a high tech radio on the bookshelf and a large flat screen TV. He can’t help but laugh. “Sorta. More than likely it’ll be just me, you, Abigail and a deck of cards this evening. Maybe some more of that hot chocolate.”

“With a roaring fire in front of us? I haven’t been able to locate any firewood or kindling.”

Will scrunches the curls at the back of his neck with his hand and makes a face. “Ha. So um, there’s a story behind that. The landlord wanted to charge me an extra $200 for firewood.”

“And you told them you would get it yourself,” Hannibal finishes approvingly. “Though if it was a matter of cost, I would have been happy to share in the price of our vacation, Will.”

“It wasn’t about that. Besides you would have been happy to pay for the whole thing if I hadn’t already given them my credit card number.”

Hannibal chuckles good naturedly but something serious darkens his eyes. “An FBI salary is insufficient for the services you provide Jack.”

“And yet there’s no one else pounding down my door for my ‘services,’” Will replies lightly, not bothering to defend Jack. His Christmas cheer only extends so far. “At least I can keep my dogs in the manner to which they’re accustomed.” 

He got a text message from the dog watcher he hired this morning in fact, and a camera photo of his pack running in the field outside.

“Well, are you planning to go out and gather the wood now?”

“Yep,” Will answers. “Thought it would be best, before the sun comes out and Abigail wakes up. I don’t want her to feel like we brought her all the way to West Virginia for chores.”

“I would like to accompany you, that is if you do not mind my company.”

Will shakes his head, smiling a little to himself as he looks down at Hannibal’s stockinged feet. “Not at all.”

Hannibal stands, and in minutes he’s upstairs and then back to the main level again, dressed nearly as warmly as Will is. Hannibal is quiet, Will barely heard his footsteps as he approached. He acknowledges the other man with a nod. With silent admiration, Will notes his hiking boots. They’re not new, Will can see the faint scuffs, but even he can discern their high quality. 

So as not to wake Abigail, they leave the cabin quietly as possible. Into the thick lush woods, they venture--Will leading, Hannibal close behind. Almost right away, Will selects a few large and thick branches, leftover from the recent snow storm more than likely. He carries them in his arms back to the cabin porch. As he comes back down the stairs, Hannibal is bring up his own armful.

The sun still hasn’t risen but the greying, pine-filled sky is streaked in plum and rose colors. Though the cold has begun to filter through the down of his jacket, Will still feels warm and content from his full night of sleep. It’s scary how quickly he realizes how much he could get used to this, this quiet domesticity with two people who understand him better than he often understands himself. 

Comfort is not something his subconscious allows him for long. He has bent down to pick up some firewood when his mind reaches the end of its tether. 

Between trees and through mist, the stag appears. The dark creature breathes heavily, its breath fogging and thick. The dark creature is only several feet in front of him, five steps and he could _touch_ it. The stag’s eyes lock with his and Will inhales sharply, feels his heart rocket violently against his ribs.

Though he should know better, his nervous eyes dart to Hannibal. The other man is looking towards the horizon, with another armful of thick sticks and branches held against his broad chest. _See?_ Will wants to cry but he can’t speak past the hysteria knotting his throat. He chokes on his words, tasting blood. Not to be ignored, the stag’s enormous hooves stamp several times at the ground as if in annoyance, calming only once Will turns to it again. The stag shakes his antlers, beckoning Will closer. 

Unsteadily, Will lurches forward, lured against his own volition. 

“Will,” Hannibal calls. His voice is far away.

So is his touch. Will barely feels Hannibal’s hand on his arm before he jerks away from him.

The stag wants him to see. He is nearly in front of the feathered creature when it rears back and stamps on the icy ground again, snuffing loudly. 

That’s when he see it. Under one giant hoof, something lies coiled--tan and curled in on itself like a thick rope. He staggers back but it’s too late. The snake writhes, beady eyes catching his as it strikes.

Pain pricks, then slashes across his thigh. It’s so sharp and fast, he barely processes it before it heightens, ripping through him. He falls backwards to a bed of leaves and dirt, watches the snake as it scurries away from his boot. As quickly as it bit him, it wiggles back into the ground. 

“Will, Will.” He hears his name, and tries to clear the wetness in his eyes to find the source.

Something moves him quickly, turning his body. Not the stag, it’s already long gone. The pain in his thigh is dulling rapidly, leaving his leg heavy and numb.

Hannibal’s face comes into view. The other man almost looks like someone else. Will is not sure he’s ever seen him look so stricken. It’s... inelegant. 

“I think...” Will breathes. “A snake bit me.”

“Don’t try to talk,” Hannibal orders, maneuvering Will’s dead weight. Will feels the roughness of tree bark against him but he’s not aware of much else. 

Hannibal’s eyes sweep over his face again and then he’s bending down, fingers quick and light against the inseam of Will’s pants. His hand stills when he finds the hot spot on Will’s body, somewhere between his crotch and knee, where the denim of his jeans are ripped. His skin burns as soon as Hannibal touches it. Will jerks and Hannibal mutters an unfamiliar word under his breath. Will understands that it’s not a _nice_ word, whatever it is.

“Mmmm, am I gonna be OK doc?” Will manages. 

“You will be fine.” 

Will frowns at him, unable to tell if he’s lying. “Put your arm around me. We are going back to the house so I can treat you,” Hannibal commands. 

Leaning on the other man with almost his full weight, Will shuffles forward most of the way but his legs collapse the last few steps. He nearly falls to the ground face first but somehow Hannibal anticipates him. Will can’t feel his leg but he can feel Hannibal’s fingers, bruisingly tight across his waist. The man’s other arm reaches down, and with a small grunt, he pulls Will up by the backs of his knees and towards his chest.

Like this, he carries Will the last few feet towards the porch and then past the threshold of the cabin. 

Dizzy, Will sighs when Hannibal releases him, allowing him to sink down into the sofa. The room isn’t spinning like the trees and wine-colored sky outside. Hannibal touches his waist again. Will realizes that Hannibal is undoing the button of his pants and the zipper. 

He shivers, trying to move away in protest. “I need to see the bite, Will,” Hannibal warns, not waiting for a response. Hannibal kneels at the foot of the couch, then shoves Will’s pants down to his ankles, baring his thighs and small blue boxer shorts. 

Will’s face feels hot but the cool air inside the cabin feels good on his enflamed skin, across his left quad and calve especially. He whimpers as Hannibal leans over his leg, gently easing it open and bringing his face close to it. There, several inches up past his knee is the spot that aches. Through his lowered lashes, Will sees the swollen, reddened skin, the circle of white around it. It’s only bleeding a small amount from the fang marks. Hannibal inspects the wound, fingers prodding the pink punctures enough to make Will hiss.

“You are fortunate. There is still time for the poison to be drained at the cabin,” Hannibal says.

It takes Will a moment to hear the words through the fog of pain puddling in his brain, longer to decipher them. “What?” he asks. But the tarnished gold crown of Hannibal’s head is already lowering. 

“Hanni--fuck.”

Will nearly jerks out of the other man’s grasp, even the whisper light touch of his mouth feels scaldingly hot. Hannibal holds tight to his knee, though, and drags him back down the couch; ignoring his muffled yelp.

And then Will can’t look away, his mouth dropping open as Hannibal’s lips brush his inner thigh in a strange sort of kiss. First it’s just a feather-light touch, then it becomes more forceful, with pressure building against his skin steadily and slowly. The compression of the bite mark causes a clear fluid to seep out of the wound.

The poison, Will thinks, his breath fluttering in question.

Sighing, Hannibal seals his lips over the wound more firmly, draining the snake’s venom into his mouth. Will gasps, jerks again when he realizes Hannibal is watching him from below, dark eyes trained unwavering on his face. He brings his other hand under Will’s thigh, keeping the leg turned to the side and spread open. Will shudders as he feels the pressure on the snake bite shift to hard suction. The sensation is both painful and intimate and he can’t stop twitching, even as Hannibal’s throat works against the side of his knee, drawing the poison out of Will’s body and into his own. 

In increments, the heat of his wound cools slightly under Hannibal’s mouth. The same can’t be said for the rest of Will’s body. An inferno of blue fire blazes in his belly. Sticky sweat glues his undershirt to his back. Dimly and slowly he becomes painfully aware of his arousal, the tenting of his thin boxers. A wet spot grows on the faded blue fabric each time Hannibal milks his wound and Will is terrified because he’s been bitten by a deadly snake but also because Hannibal might see the improbable effect he is having on him. 

He presses his palm hard against his mouth, trying to stifle the unmistakably sexual sounds escaping his throat as Hannibal continues to the draw the poison out with long, probing sucks of his mouth. “Hannibal,” he groans against his fist, hips bucking in frustration. One of Hannibal’s hands merely strokes the outside of his thigh in a placating caress.

By the time Hannibal pulls his lips from Will’s leg, Will is breathing heavily and trying unsuccessfully to cup his shaking hands over his groin. He watches as Hannibal’s throat rolls and then spits a mix of blood and clear liquid on the gleaming wood floor. For a moment, neither of them can speak. Will sucks at the air, can’t get enough of it. Hannibal’s chest rises and falls, rapidly and silently. Then Hannibal turns his eyes back to Will’s, his hands remaining steady on Will’s legs. Slowly, he leans down again, and with one hot doglike lick, he laps at Will’s wound, closing it. 

Hannibal pulls away with a wet sound, licking his lips. Will swallows back a groan. Beneath his fingers, his dick jumps stubbornly but his leg isn’t burning him alive anymore. 

“How do you feel?” Hannibal asks, his accent strange and thick to Will’s ears. 

“A little hot,” he rasps. He’s not sure how else to describe it. 

Hannibal regards him calmly, breath leveling. He still kneels below Will and his hands have not moved from Will’s skin; his fingers stroke gently, back and forth, ruffling the fine dark hairs on Will’s trembling legs. Slowly, he rises up from his heels and one of his hands lifts up to Will’s head and pulls the sweaty curls back. Will lets his head rock back on to the couch cushion as the doctor checks his temperature. 

“You are slightly feverish,” Hannibal murmurs, mere inches from his neck. “That is to be expected.” 

Will bites his lip, runs his tongue over the drying blood there. Hannibal’s eyes track the movement, missing nothing. Will is not sure what compels him to speak. 

“And my taste?”

Hannibal looks back to Will’s lap, takes in what Will unsuccessfully tries to hide. From there, he drags his gaze past the ridiculously small boxers that show too much thigh and then down Will’s leg, lingering and slow.

When Hannibal presses his lips to his leg again, it is a little above the wound, right on the edge of the rapidly fading circle. Hannibal’s mouth is just as open as it had been before, and the heat of his breath strokes him just as well as his tongue does. 

Will cries out with a soft breath, slumping further down the sofa. He’s practically laying across it. Utterly boneless.

“You taste much better,” Hannibal says. Then he stands up the rest of the way, leaving Will on the couch. 

There’s the sound of running water behind him, coming from the sink. Will realizes Hannibal is cleaning out his mouth. Will continues to breathe heavily, hands ineffectually attempting to cover his erection. Though he wants to stay above the slippery surface of sleep, his eyes keep closing.

At some point, Hannibal looms over him, smelling of the woods and crisp aftershave. He guides Will’s head back, and water spills down Will’s throat.

Dimly, he is aware of a red fuzzy blanket enveloping his body. His mind drifts away.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Will dreams. The stag is breathing on him and he can’t get away, doesn’t want to get away.

The creature wants to tell him something. It lowers its snout to the side of his face and for one horrible moment Will thinks it will run its tongue down his jaw and over his throat. 

Instead it speaks, in a hot hiss.

_“He sees you when you’re sleeping.”_

Will whimpers, trying to turn his face away. 

_“He knows when you’re awake.”_

The words are distorted...yet. 

He remembers something. Being small enough to squeeze his body into the smallest nooks and crannies of the boat. His dad, suntanned and beaming at him. The giddy excitement of receiving his own brand new crescent wrench for Christmas. On the deck of the boat, the boom box was playing holiday music. 

Wiggling his toes, Will awakes.

The first thing he does is glance around the semi-unfamiliar room. Slowly, he remembers the cabin, and arriving there last evening with Hannibal and Abigail. The classic furniture and deep navy blue walls he sees now are the same as the room he fell asleep in last night. He kicks off the heavy blanket. Several hot towels are wrapped carefully around the snake bite on his thigh. His wound aches but not as much as he expects it to, even after he moves his leg off the bed. Santa Claus is Coming to Town is still jingling downstairs. 

As Will finally wobbles downstairs, Winter Wonderland is playing.

“I told you to turn the music down Abigail,” Hannibal commands quietly. Will smiles because Hannibal sounds like such a dad.

When he enters the large living room, Abigail turns from the sofa, spotting him immediately. She grins.

“Will! You’re up. How are you feeling?”

Will ducks his head, smiling sheepishly. “Better,” he says.

His eyes wander across the room to where Hannibal stands. He is wearing a black apron and has a wide variety of vegetables and fresh herbs arranged across the surface of the marble counter. He’s halfway done with chopping what appears to be a head of bok choy. 

In greeting, Hannibal inclines his head briefly, arching one brow at Will. “I will have to continue close monitoring to make sure infection does not set in. The heat packing on the puncture wounds should continue to help.”

“Thank you,” Will says gratefully. 

"I believe it is time for a new wrap for your wound as well," Hannibal says, nodding. "I will warm up some towels." His hands are already busying. 

Those hands.

Will can’t help his stare, and for one second, the sense memory of Hannibal drawing poison from his bite mark is so vivid his knees almost buckle. It wasn’t a dream. He doesn’t even remember his actual dream now.

Instead, Will remembers Hannibal’s light touch on his thigh, at the edge of his thin boxers. There were other touches too--Hannibal’s lips on his leg, sucking and tugging at Will’s wound with his tongue. The warmth of his mouth seemed to caress Will from the inside out. 

Will had been a panting mess and Hannibal... Hannibal looked as if he wanted...

 _No._

He will have to leave it, mentally chalk it up as a hallucination on his part or another wishful yet stupid clutch for balance. His arousal towards Hannibal is now more embarrassing than he has words for, he’s lucky the doctor is still talking to him. 

He’ll just pretend it never happened. Always goes better for him and the person of his unrequited affections if he does. 

Gingerly, Will makes his way over to Abigail. She makes room for him beside her. When he props his sore leg on the coffee table, Abigail offers him one of the suede pillows and he pushes it under the heel of his foot.

“What have you two been up to?” he asks, deciding conversation is probably what normal people would do at the moment. “I hope you were still able to spend some time outside and enjoy the time away from Port Haven,” he says to Abigail. 

“Hannibal and I went for a walk down one of the trails once he said you were stable,” Abigail offers. “We brought back our little tree.”

She points out the small tree-like branch by the front door with a few presents underneath it. Snow flake decorations, crafted out of what appears to be table napkins, adorn it.

“Hannibal brought his binoculars and we saw some really cool birds and a few deer. There was a really pretty black tailed towhee too. Here, let me show you some of my photos.”

Abigail swipes from image to image on her phone, Christmas music still playing in the background.

Hannibal comes out of the kitchen several times, once to bring them both cool glasses of water and another time to bring Will more heated towels for his leg.

When Hannibal reaches for his leg, Will blushes, leaning forward fast. “It’s OK, I can do it.”

Hannibal merely nods, backing away to the kitchen.

“What are you making?” Will asks, just to say something.

“An adaption of chicken noodle soup,” Hannibal says. “I’m afraid you are exhausting all of my variations.”

Fingers carding through his bed raggled hair, Will snorts. 

“You should be making snake soup,” Abigail teases, looking over the back of the couch and at Hannibal. “I tried to track it down myself after Hannibal told me what happened.”

“The snake was just fulfilling its nature,” Will says quietly. “I’m glad you guys didn’t find it.”

For a long minute, there is only the strains of music coming from Abigail’s phone and Hannibal’s knife, thumping against the cutting board.

“An adder viper once bit my mother while she was out gardening,” Hannibal says, breaking the silence. 

“What happened?” Abigail asks.

“My father carried her to the green house and drained the wound.”

Will doesn’t have to close his eyes to see it. The cozy cabin living room fades and his vivid imagination supplies the scene. The green house, vibrant and lush with exotic plants and vegetables. Hannibal’s mother would be fair and beautiful. _Fragile._ Hannibal’s father... he sees the broad, dark man bent over her ankle. He can almost _feel_ a hot mouth swallowing him again. 

He senses little Hannibal and his sister, their small gray shadows at the peripheral of his vision. As he reaches out to them, Hannibal’s memory loses its color and grows dim.

Will startles, eyes finding Hannibal. He’s back in the kitchen again.

“He pulled the poison from her leg as my sister and I watched. That is how I knew what to do with Will.”

“Oh,” says Abigail, her eyes big and round as look down and re-absorbs Will’s wounded and compressed leg. She thinks for a second to herself. “Are there many snakes in Lithuania?”

Hannibal smiles, sliding his cut veggies from the bowl he holds and into a steaming pot.

“There are many, most are harmless. One of the most cherished deities of Lithuania’s pagan folklore is the humble grass snake Zaltys. She is the messenger. Moreover, a bringer of good luck and fertility.”

Intently, Abigail rests her chin in her palms listening to Hannibal as he cooks. Will can’t help but do the same. 

“As a tribute to Zaltys, many peasant families keep a snake at home, not as a pet but rather an honored member of the family.”

Hannibal continues to tell them about the snake goddess as he finishes preparing their Christmas Eve meal. The table is filled with a basket of warm rolls and three large bowls of chicken soup. Rounding out their meal are side dishes of halved brussel sprouts, drizzled in balsamic vinegar, and another bowl of roasted vegetables accented with rosemary. 

Throughout dinner, Abigail peppers Hannibal with more questions--What was your house like, how did you celebrate Christmas, and so on. 

It’s all very innocent, and not the kind of questioning Will is used to, soft balls instead of hard jabs. For his part, Hannibal responds courteously, asking Abigail a few questions about her own family traditions in return. Only when the topic of his sister comes up does Will notice Hannibal falter, deftly changing the subject.

He admits he’s fascinated by Hannibal as much as Abigail is, more than that, if he’s honest with himself. And he’s never heard Hannibal talk about his childhood in the time he has known him as much as he has tonight. His lilting accent soothes better than any Christmas song. If it takes being bitten by a snake to get Hannibal to open up, to see inside, then... Will would gladly take the pain again.

~*~*~*~*~*~

“Mmm, did I...” Blinking rapidly, Will glances around the room. He’s laying on the sofa with his foot propped up again. His thigh is wrapped in a fresh hot compress. “Did I fall asleep?”

Hannibal lowers his tablet. “Yes. Would you like a glass of water?”

“Please.”

He waits as Hannibal retrieves him a cup. Abigail is no longer in the room. Darkness seems to press in on the windows from the outside. Will swears he can hear the wind howl. He cranes his head to look at the clock. It’s past midnight by nearly twenty minutes, he must’ve been out for several hours. He remembers eating their delicious dinner, he remembers Hannibal’s stories.

“Before I fell asleep, you were telling a story about a girl who loved the snake prince,” Will recalls, taking a long sip from his cup. The cool water is quenching. “What happened to them?”

“Another time, Will.”

Will nods, but feels a curdle of disappointment unfurl in his belly. There is something distant in Hannibal’s face now, in the reserved line of his mouth and strong jaw. Will is sad suddenly and can’t explain it. These seconds of peace in the cabin, with Hannibal sitting next to him on the sofa, is already slipping from him, like a kite’s string on a blusterous day.

“Tell me, how do you feel?”

The question is familiar as much as it is annoying.

“Not too bad. Head is a little achey,” Will admits. He moves his leg experimentally. “My leg feels tight.”

“You will feel better soon. I believe your body has finally tempered its fever.”

“Must have been your delicious chicken noodle soup.” 

“Hmmm,” Hannibal hums, he looks down at his tablet and begins to read again.

Will takes a deep steadying breath. He feels rash, impulsive. He doesn't want to do the right thing, he doesn't want to pretend he doesn't have feelings because it's _comfortable_. In a split second, he decides to take the plunge, see where he falls. If he stretches out his arm, he could touch Hannibal. Instead, he scoots down the slippery leather seat of the couch until his white-socked feet nudge Hannibal’s thigh.

“It could’ve been your mouth,” he says then, softly, because he can’t stop thinking about it. “That definitely helped.”

Hannibal inhales deeply, glancing at Will from the corner of his eye.

“Will, you are not well.” He gently puts his palm down on Will’s traveling foot, holding it captive.

“Stop it. I’m tired of hearing that. I’m well enough. You _saw_ , didn’t you?”

“There is no need for you to explain biological responses.”

“It wasn’t just biological,” Will scoffs, rolling his eyes. Hannibal’s gaze narrows, his hand squeezing Will’s foot. 

Will feels dangerous, and he can’t quite stop his words from spewing out. “It’s like... you’re very smart about some things but blatantly willful against everything else that doesn’t fit in that box.”

Hannibal is so silent, it’s as if he’s not breathing. Will falters, dropping his gaze. 

“You wanted to kiss me earlier, I think,” he mutters to himself. “Was that real?” 

“ _Yes_.”

The word is part growl and spoken with such vehemence and force it stuns Will. It’s as if a bomb has gone off in the room. For a moment, all he can feel is its impact ricocheting through his skull. 

He wants to ask why Hannibal didn’t. But maybe he already knows. 

“You build such high walls,” he says. 

“Perhaps it’s because I am protecting you.”

Will glances up, searches the depth of Hannibal’s dark eyes. He fights past his own discomfort to see him as much as he can. 

“No, it isn’t,” he decides firmly. 

Hannibal looks at him fondly.

“You’re waiting...” Will says slowly, wonderingly. He is hyper aware of the single point of contact between them, the warmth of Hannibal’s thumb stroking the arch of his foot. “You’re biding your time.”

Before Will can blink, Hannibal is on top of him and between his legs, trapping him down into the sofa with his full weight. 

“Tell me Will, is it time?”

“Yeah,” he replies, breathless. “It is damn past time.”

The move from his police training comes to him. He pulls Hannibal down to his body, arms tight behind his back and right shoulder. When Hannibal tries to move away, he traps Hannibal’s leg with his bad leg fast and then uses the hold to get momentum, driving down into the couch with his good leg and thrusting his hips up. In seconds, he has Hannibal pinned below him.

He surveys his prize. The high, but unmistakably masculine cheekbones, the smooth parted hair he wants to touch just to feel the silk of it, and the dark eyes the color of raven’s wings, that gaze back at Will in mirrored awe. 

Will decides Hannibal likes it like this as much as he does.

Will lowers his head and their lips touch, first slow and tentative before he closes the gap with his tongue licking into Hannibal’s mouth. He feels Hannibal arch below him and he grounds down his hips in response. They kiss deeply, savoring one another. 

He breaks for air after what feels like minutes of breathless kissing. 

“Do you think this can be quiet?” Will asks, mouthing at Hannibal’s adam’s apple. “Don’t want to wake Abigail.”

Hannibal grabs his hips tightly, steadying him on top.

“I can manage. Can you?”

With one hand, he cups Hannibal’s groin. 

“Yes,” is about all he can say. 

Much later though, they do make it upstairs. And it’s not very quiet at all.

~*~*~*~*~*~

On Christmas morning, Will still has a slight limp, but overall he feels incredibly healthy, in a way he hasn’t in months, maybe years. He credits Hannibal for it entirely. The muscles of his back and shoulders seem loose, and there has been a clear release of the tension and anxiety that usually grips him. His morning afterglow feels laughably transparent but beyond Abigail’s amused smirk of recognition, there is no embarrassment. It just feels right.

Together the three of them sit in the cozy living room of the cabin, around the small tree Abigail found and decorated yesterday. 

Hannibal gives his tastefully wrapped gifts first. To Abigail, he gives a beautiful silk scarf with quotes from the book Emma printed around it.

“That’s my favorite book,” Abigail says, looking up. She smiles and it’s contagious. “You remembered.”

Next, Hannibal gives Will a soft bundle of layered tissue paper and plaid ribbon. Will unwraps it carefully. Inside is an impossibly soft sweater, with rich crimson coloring. Though it appears delicate, it’s dense, and knitted very tightly, so Will knows it won’t rip as easily as most of his own sweaters do. Touching the fabric hesitantly, Will realizes it is probably worth more than most of his clothing combined. He thanks Hannibal and puts the sweater on over his tee because he doesn’t want to wait to feel it against his skin. 

Abigail gives her gifts next. To Will, she gives a painting of him and his dogs. He laughs a little when he sees it, himself in glasses and messy hair, his dogs frozen in their leaps outside of his house. His typical morning has been translated into paint strokes by a talented, yet young artist. 

“I painted it in art class at Port Haven,” she tells him, fiddling with Hannibal’s scarf, already around her neck.

“I love it,” he tells her. He will hang it in his bedroom, and he tells her so. Hannibal makes a small noise of admiration when he has the chance to study the painted canvas. “You should continue with art lessons when you leave Port Haven, Abigail,” he tells her.

Abigail lowers her eyes demurely. “I guess it’s time for your gift,” she says to Hannibal. She produces a small black box from under the mini tree.

“They took us on a field trip to Camden earlier this month and there were a bunch of really nice antique stores,” Abigail says. “I thought, even though it’s used, you might like this. It’s so unique.”

Hannibal opens his gift. Inside the black velvet lining of the box are two shining cufflinks, shaped like musical notes-- a treble clef and bass clef. With intent focus, Hannibal studies the cufflinks, holding them from left to right under the light.

“These have been refurbished very well Abigail,” Hannibal tells Abigail, after a beat. “You have a very good eye. These will look nice on my suit coat next time I attend the opera or symphony.”

The force of Hannibal’s compliment unhunches Abigail’s shoulders. When its his turn to look, Will admires the cufflinks as well, imagining Hannibal wearing them. Abigail’s silver cufflinks only add to the refined image of Hannibal in his close-fitting tuxedo. 

Then Will feels like a teenager and he has to clear his throat because it’s time to give his gifts. 

To Abigail, he gives a necklace he made from one of his fishing lures. The small red feather and newly dulled metal hook hangs on a low silvery chain that Alana helped him find. Abigail exclaims loudly, tells Will she loves it. 

To Hannibal, Will gives the best bottle of Macallan scotch he could afford. It was a little over half of a paycheck. “You were low last time you hosted Jack and I for dinner,” Will says, somewhat forlornly. Despite the price tag, his gift seems stupid and impersonal now. Yet, Hannibal receives it graciously, full of admiration.

“Thank you,” Hannibal says warmly, his eyes holding Will’s for a long beat. 

When the gift giving is done, they share coffees and one last fire. Will doesn’t want to leave but it’s soon time. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t take you fishing Abigail,” Will says, as they’re loading up the car later that morning. “We’ll go soon,” he promises.

Abigail flips her braid over her shoulder. She’s still wearing her new scarf from Hannibal. Under it is Will's necklace. “Don’t worry about it. I care about you getting better. Besides there’s always next time, right? If I go to American U or Georgetown, we can come back. This could be our thing for the holidays.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day after Christmas, Will wakes up alone. It’s to be expected really, he can’t expect that after one night together, one really, really good night that is, Hannibal would take even more time from his affluent Baltimore suburb and come and rough it in Wolf Trap with Will and his dogs. Will knows his thoughts are often illogical but this idea strikes him in particular as completely and utterly absurd.

He’s more than a little surprised to hear a knock on the door a little later, as he’s reaching for the Frosted Mini-Wheats above his fridge. 

Winston cocks his head and Sadie gives a half-hearted growl. “Sleeping on the job guys,” Will chides the rest of his pack playfully.

He opens the door. It’s Hannibal, dressed impeccably in a grey three-piece suit, a blood-red button up shirt below his vest. He clutches a large canteen of coffee and carries several bags.

“Good morning,” Will says. His face warms. Just like that, he remembers being on top of Hannibal just a day before, writhing and moaning, and both of them coming, hot and heady, and nearly at the same second. God. 

Hannibal’s nostrils flare, and he looks as if he’s remembering the same moment, glancing at Will now as if he’s a finely curated dish--filled with all of his favorites. In his tee and boxer shirt, it’s not like Will’s naked but might as well be with the way Hannibal’s eyes stroke him appreciatively, lingering just so on the length of his legs. 

He likes to think it’s not just because of the bandage on his thigh.

Will lets Hannibal in. The sexual tension between them easing slightly as the dogs are immediately at Hannibal’s feet, all wet noses and wiggling rumps. Hannibal indulges them with bits of sausage from a ziplock baggie.

“I brought you breakfast as well,” he tells Will. 

“It smells good,” Will replies, grinning. He’s already grabbing plates and utensils, setting them up along his kitchen island.

As the ham quiche warms in the oven, Hannibal produces a small, square package, covered in shimmery green wrapping from one of his bags. “I brought you a gift.” 

“I thought we already did our gift exchange.”

Hannibal smiles crookedly. “It wasn’t the right gift. I had no idea our relationship would change so quickly.”

“But you knew it would?”

“I had hoped.”

Will smiles, pleased. Slowly, he unwraps the present. The torn paper reveals an old, leather-bound book. There is a classic gold cursive font filling its cover. The title reads: “Lithuanian Myths and Legends.”

“Hannibal, it’s beautiful.” He traces his fingers over the gold-lined pages. “You shouldn’t... Is this from your private collection?”

“I suppose you could say that. It does come from a Lecter. Perhaps it was my great grandfather. Many of our books were in Greek, Latin and French. This book was special. It was one of the few English books we had.”

“I can’t...” Will begins, even as his fingers close tightly around the book. Hannibal’s gaze tracks the motion and Will feels his face warm.

“Thank you,” he finally musters. 

Will wants to make apologies for his own gift, the bottle of Scotch, but the oven dings.

They eat the ham quiche together in quiet companionship. 

Hannibal asks him about his leg and Will tells him it is feeling much better. He’s glad that his classes are out for the week, giving him more time to rest it. Hannibal has closed his psychiatric office for the holidays as well. They talk about Abigail, freely and warmly. Hannibal expresses his displeasure at Abigail’s current level of schooling at Port Haven and Will agrees that it’s not the quality she needs. They discuss her college education and their mutual hopes for her. 

Will is getting a second helping of quiche when his cell rings.

It’s Jack.

“We need you in Pennsylvania,” Jack says grimly on the other side. It’s not a question. 

"Got something special for you in Rosemont."

 _Gee, Jack. You shouldn't have,_ Will doesn't say.

Brusquely, Jack tells Will when the next flight to Philadelphia will leave out of Dulles. Will has one hour to get ready. He hangs up the phone and looks at Hannibal, a little dazed.

“No matter what Jack says you should finish your breakfast. You need the calories. You’re still recovering,” Hannibal says.

Will blinks.

“You’re right.” 

His mind is already 152 miles away--the distance from Wolf Trap to Philadelphia-- but he shovels down his second slice of quiche obediently, hardly tasting the rich and creamy flavor of his eggs, the perfectly salted ham. He’s thinking about what Jack told him, wondering what darkness he will find in Pennsylvania. Glancing up from his empty plate, he sees Hannibal still eating. He cuts his food precisely and efficiently, then waits even longer in between bites. 

Has Will’s speed eating offended Hannibal? There’s a sudden pit of quicksand in his stomach at the thought. Hannibal appears unruffled though, still chewing slowly as he regards Will thoughtfully. 

“Go to Pennsylvania, Will. It’s all right. I’ll take care of your dogs as long as you are gone.”

Will startles. “You don’t have to...”

“I want to,” Hannibal insists. “They like my cooking. I don’t wish to deprive them.”

“What about your plans? Dinners with your friends, the opera?” 

“I will change my plans,” Hannibal says simply. And Will gets the feeling he means to change more than just his social calendar. Something much larger is implied and Will can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Is it bad?” Will asks nervously, fighting the urge to bite at his thumb nail. 

“No. And you should not concern yourself. I wouldn’t offer to help you with the dogs if I didn’t want to. I’m not as... giving as you are.”

Will’s heart skips a beat. “And when I come back?”

“I will be waiting,” Hannibal says.

 _To pick up the pieces, to suck out the poison again._ It’s unsaid, but Will hears it all the same. 

He reaches for Hannibal’s hand and holds it tightly before the moment passes.

**Author's Note:**

> Note- Snake bites are nasty things. What Hannibal does is this fic would not work if a snake is actually poisonous. Do not attempt at home!
> 
> Send me stuff at [EmCWrites on Tumblr](http://em-c-writes.tumblr.com/).


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